


Burn the Topless Towers

by miss_lanyon



Series: Vorrutyer Stories [3]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Duelling, F/M, Infidelity, Insanity, Murder, POV Second Person, Psychological Horror, Women in Refrigerators, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 18:24:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_lanyon/pseuds/miss_lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She'd had the most beautiful imaginable face..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn the Topless Towers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lannamichaels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/gifts).



> Please pay attention to the warnings! _There is no happy here._
> 
> Thanks to madgastronomer, JanLevine, & trinker for beta.

Your father-in-law is scowling at you as you pour tea for him. "I don't like your brother," he says. Ges has just left; Count Vorkosigan glares at the place where he'd been sitting, as though his gaze could retroactively burn a hole through your brother's heart. You do not tell him that your brother does not have one.

"That's all right," you say. "I don't like your son, just now."

His eyes widen in shock, and you give him the tea. "Now, missy -- " he starts, but you stare him into silence. Whatever he was going to say, whatever admonishment or disparagement or command, dissolves. "He's a good man," he says instead, sipping his tea.

"Certainly," you agree. Aral _is_ a good man. He's also a bad husband. From the look on his face, Piotr knows it. You pass him a plate of little sandwiches made with roast beef and cress and the mustard he likes.

"Why do you have him here, anyway? I don't think you like your brother, either." You blink. Is he seriously implying that _you_ are the reason your brother treats Vorkosigan House as his own? Why yes, yes he is.

"He's my brother," you say. "Aral was friends with him before we married, and they are still friends, of course." You can be proud of yourself. Your tone doesn't change at all. Piotr flinches.

"Yes, well." He directs his attention to the sandwiches, and then manages a rueful smile. "I thought -- you are so beautiful," he says, wistfully, "I thought maybe he would notice." There had been a lot of marriage offers, once you came of age.

"Da," you say, impulsively. He's insisted that you call him that, ever since you married his son, less than a year ago: _Count Vorkosigan_ is too formal, he sees you as a daughter, etc. etc., but it's been difficult to do. Especially now that you are moving to your own apartment. He looks at you warily; you take his hand. "He noticed. We'll all muddle through," you say. "You'll see." His face softens and warms in a smile. You hope you are right.

*

What had seemed so clear at the tea table no longer seems clear, when you are smiling at Lady Alys Vorpatril. She is your cousin, and becoming the hostess you had hoped to be when you and your brothers were planning to take the world by storm. The three siblings Vorrutyer.

You are unescorted yet again. "Aral was detained," you explain. You are Vor; your head is high as other guests whisper.

"I'm sure his duties won't keep him long," Alys says, sure of no such thing: you both know he won't be coming. You smile at her, because it's hardly Alys' fault her numbers will be uneven. Should parties in Vorbarr Sultana stop, simply because Lady Vorkosigan has no escort? Of course not.

The answer is obvious: find an escort. It is too late for today, but a lifetime of parties and whispers stretches before you. You smile at Captain Vordmitryev as Alys watches, worried.

*

"People are talking," your brother tells you over tea. His eyes crinkle at the corners in a smile, and you wonder what is pleasing him so much. He has beautiful eyes, which should be gratifying, since everyone remarks on their resemblance to yours. You and your brother are the only children of your generation to inherit the Vorrutyer eyes. You wonder, sometimes, how the other inheritance, the Vorrutyer madness, will come to you. Sadistic obsession, like Ges? Paralyzing fear of the world beyond your flat, like Jean? You don't suppose that it will pass you by.

"Are they, now?" You keep your gaze level, disinterested. Sometimes that even works. "I can't see why."

"They say you're having an affair with Vordmitryev. _And_ with Vorcrecy."

Your eyebrows go up. Vorcrecy is a civilian minister, Transportation or Pensions or something, and you've spoken to him perhaps three times in your life. While he does appear to have a harmless crush on you (as do many middle-aged men), you're not really interested in any other lovers just now. Vordmitryev is _quite_ enough, thank you. There's no point in explaining what Ges surely already knows. Your brother always knows, always has a purpose, and careful nonchalance is not much of a shield. "It doesn't count if it's cock," you say instead.

He shouts with laughter. He'd said that to you, a year ago, explaining his inconsequential friendship with your fiancé. "You are my _favorite_ sister."

"I'm your _only_ sister," you reply, as always.

He smiles at you as if he loves you. Once, perhaps, he did -- sometimes -- but that Ges is long gone. You had hoped he would turn his considerable energies towards something benign, perhaps building crazed towers in the country like poor Uncle Dono. But instead he has devoted himself to Imperial Service, and Imperial Service accepts his devotion greedily. Who will bleed dry first? you wonder. "You're doing very well, Lady Vorkosigan," he tells you, fondly.

"What do you have against Vorcrecy?" you ask.

Your brother spreads his fingers, then closes them. "Merely that he is in my way, just now."

You feel a deep chill. "As flies to wanton boys," you whisper.

His smile deepens, showing a dimple. "Just so."

*

Jean does not want to see you. You ignore that, preventing him from closing the door to his apartment with your bag, pushing your way in. "Jean, Ges is getting worse," you say.

He shrugs. "I know. But what can you do?"

It's a rhetorical question, and you bite your lip to keep from snapping at him. " _I_ can do nothing. You, older brother.... You can talk to the Count. Have him _committed,_ before he -- " You stop, because you were going to say _kills someone_ but are actually quite sure he already has, not as part of his service, and that he enjoyed it. "He's worse," you repeat.

Jean puts his hand over his face. "I can't do anything, either," he says. "He's not the only one getting worse."

You look around the apartment: at the stacks of books and paper, the desperate and futile attempt to clear an island of space to live in, to breathe. The last time you saw him outside this place was years ago. "This is treatable, Jean," you say.

"Only if I'm willing to shame the Vorrutyer name." He touches your face. "It will be all right."

That's the touchstone, the talisman, and you know the conversation is finished. There is nothing else you can do. You look up and smile for him. "We'll muddle through. Jean -- "

"Yes?"

"When you have children -- keep them safe."

"I will," he says. "I will try." But he can't meet your eyes.

*

Right away, you notice that Aral is not, actually, bleeding. That dark stain on his coat is from someone else. One sword is sheathed, the other held loose and bloody in his hand. "I loved you," he cries, sounding broken, standing at your door. It's the first time he's come to your apartment since you moved out of Vorkosigan House.

"Did you," you say: it's not a question.

"Yes, dammit! And you've been whoring yourself out -- "

"Aral," you snap, in a tone that would even stop Ges, if only for a moment. "I needed an escort. You wouldn't -- "

"And Vordmitryev and Vorcrecy would?" he demands. The sword tangles in your skirt, briefly, and slices out. You think it's accidental. Probably.

"Oh, no," you breathe, and stare at him in horror. "First blood," you say desperately, though the look on his face and the blood smeared halfway up the blade argue against that.

"They're dead," he said. "They were fucking my _wife._ What did you think would happen, when you took up with them? Did you think no one would tell me? _Two_ lovers, by God. Vordmitryev -- he seduced you, didn't he? But a coward like Vorcrecy?"

"You homicidal maniac," you whisper, wondering if you should be afraid. Because Vordmitryev knows -- God, _knew_ \-- he knew the game. He'd dueled before, over other men's wives. You'd chosen him because you wanted someone who would not be hurt. He was good in bed and didn't have a heart and didn't expect you to have a heart, either; he took you to parties and political salons, told you that you were clever and laughed with you when you were wise, and never compared your beauty to the stars.

But you hadn't chosen Vorcrecy at all.

As a younger woman, you might have thrilled to a duel. Murder, though.... You think of a blushing middle-aged man, who has spoken to you three times, all of them kindly. A pattern begins assembling in your mind. If you saw men as levers, if you saw yourself as a fulcrum, would you have understood enough in time to forestall it? You know who told Aral, now. "I never slept with Vorcrecy."

"Embarrassed by your bad taste?" he sneers.

You take a deep breath, and wonder if you have found your madness. He has certainly found his. "You God-damned stupid son of a bitch," you say, biting out each word, stepping recklessly into the space where he is still waving around that bloody sword. "You have the gall, the unmitigated gall to speak to _me_ of infidelity? You murderer, you dishonorable _shit_ \-- "

" _You_ may not know what honor is, but _I_ do!" he shouts.

 _Honor._ You laugh, and then stop when your voice cracks horribly. "And you are standing here, raving, like the heroine of a Gothic novel, and you will run back to hide in your ship, and they will take you for murder and execute you, and you will die believing your lover's lies and justice served -- "

"I have no lover," he says, viciously.

You stare at him. "But you do," you say. _Oh._ And who's the stupid deceived heroine now? You're laughing, and he stares at you as if you've gone mad, and maybe you have. Because he hasn't been fucking your brother after all. At least, not while you've been married: he certainly had before.

Finally, he puts the sword back in its sheath, without even cleaning it. "When I saw you, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen," he says, pleadingly. "This dishonor -- "

"Dishonor," you echo. "If you'd defend my honor, Aral, give me a God-damned sword and duel me for it." The look on his face makes you laugh again. "No? Then get out," you say in a low voice. "Get out, and go fuck yourself, and may the Imperium have the joy of you." He doesn't move, so you turn your back and walk away. You're Vor. Maybe that's all that's left; the wife, the sister, the lover seem to have burned out of you. You feel as hollow and dark as evening air. You go to your bedroom and lock the door, waiting until you hear him leave.

*

You've just moved; ironically, this means your affairs -- hah -- are more in order than they have ever been. There's nothing left to do, so you leave the bedroom and do not give your brother the satisfaction of seeing you surprised. "There's blood on the floor," he says, irritated. "I'll have to clean that up."

"Burn it," you advise. "I loved you, you know. I could have -- we could have muddled through. I could have loved him." If you'd known your brother had been lying, if Aral had understood his lover was mad, if, if, if.

Ges cradles the plasma arc in his gloved hands. "Is that supposed to change my mind?"

"What happened to my becoming a grand political hostess?" He probably thinks you are stalling for time; maybe you are.

He shrugs. "You can't do that without a host, my dear."

All the laughter, it seems, is gone. "I suppose not. Suicide, then, now that all my loves are dead?"

"This is your husband's weapon," he corrects.

"I see. Don't tell me how you got it. Ges -- "

"Lady Vorkosigan."

You're Vor. You stare up at your brother, realizing your legs are shaking, but if you're going to die -- and you _are_ going to die -- it's going to be standing. As deaths go, the plasma arc isn't so bad. It's fast and unambiguous, not like a nerve disruptor. Not like torture. You say, "May I have a last request?" He grimaces and waits. "I just -- make sure -- " You falter ignominiously. It's all right, you tell yourself. You can do this. "Make sure my face -- is gone." Because beauty is a curse, because Aral would never ruin your face, because it will look as though you have been murdered by a madman and that, at least, will be true.

He looks startled. "You're so beautiful," he says, shaking his head. He's thinking, though, not refusing; you wait, staring into his eyes, because for all he has the plasma arc you're still his favorite sister. He looks away first and nods abruptly. "As you will."

You close your eyes.

He lifts the plasma arc and fires.

**Author's Note:**

> Aral tells the story in Chapter Three of Shards of Honor, [here.](http://www.webscription.net/chapters/0671578286/0671578286.htm)


End file.
